The monster within me: heart and soul
by Dawn Stag
Summary: short oneshot from Erik's POV. kinda angsty, based upon his feelings about himself.


Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera, I don't intend to make any form of profit nor cause any insult. I did this for entertainment only- so there (blows raspberry).

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The Monster Within Me: Heart and Soul

She left me. My angel, my love, my world. She is gone. And I have only myself to blame; I drove her away- into the arms of that boy with the perfect face- and soul. She is gone, my first and last love for I can love no other. Christine was my light, my salvation. For ten years I guided her, protected her fragile soul, moulding her into a beautiful young woman. As she grew so did my love for her, she was my muse, the only one who could inspire my music. I worshipped her, placing my angel on a pedestal; was I wrong? Was it wrong for me to love such an angel, for a demon such as myself to love a thing of such heavenly beauty? Looking back now it probably was, she does not deserve the darkness I am plagued with; the gift of her voice should be shared with the world, not kept prisoner in the bowels of hell. She was my Persephone, I, her Hades; but she did not love me. I made her believe she did. I moulded her impressionable mind to believe I was an angel. In her moment of need, I removed the pain with temporary bliss, lying to her, deceiving her. Only to make it more unbearable for the both of us when the point of no return came. She chose him, the boy, the Vicomte, begging for his life with her own. I could not refuse her, the fear in her eyes, begging me for mercy for her lover. It was then I realised what a monster I truly am. I love her and I treated her like a possession. I manipulated her; I toyed with her emotions until all she felt was fear and hate. I am a monster. A truly fearful, repulsive monster. I do not deserve love or happiness or the light. I must live out my days in the dark, with only my hated form as my companion. I do not deserve my music either, for it was the key to my love, my connection with my angel, my connection to God and Heaven.

Oh my music, my life's blood, my spirit, my soul! Can a monster have his music? Can he have one pleasure left in his miserable existence? No I must deny myself this also, a creature of hell should be made to live in agony, that is what I am- that is what I always will be. For too long I have lived within this decaying body, hoping beyond hope that I would find acceptance and love; but not any more, no this has been my answer. I am not fit to love, I am not fit to protect and care for a wife, I am not fit to father children, I am not fit- I am not fit.

Death may be the answer, to take my life and no longer feel the agony that floods my every thought, which grips my heart. But no matter how hard I reason with myself, I cannot do it. I am no coward; I will not take my own life; though many may feel joy if I did. No, it is no escape, if I do this then I will still go to hell- the decision has been made.

I do not believe in God, and yet I still feel the childish need to. I need to know why I have been cursed this way, what I have done to deserve such a punishment. Only there will be no answer, no pre-text for me to follow- just the road to death. There will be no salvation, no deal with the devil, for it has already been made and there is no going back.

All I wish is for acceptance, just for the world to see me as the man I was conceived to be- not the monster, not the demon that haunts my face. I could die a happy man if just someone would not scream and fear me when I reveal my true form, one person- one person that is all I want. Madame Giry feared me, pitied me- she tried her best, embraced me as a brother, but that would never be enough. My selfish heart needs more, no matter how hard I fight it. I long for the touch of a woman, of a wife, who I can protect and love through endless nights. To serenade and seduce, to share every thought inside my head- and hers, to laugh with, to cry with, to honour and obey- till death do we part. I will not mourn my fate; there will be no tears shed when I die, and die I will. Alone. Empty. Broken.

And so it begins, down once more into the abyss, the void that is my soul, my home, my world- my own personal hell.

And should anyone ever ask who haunted the great Opera House, who loved the most beautiful of angels, who wrote music the world will long for, know that it was me.

I am Erik, the Phantom, the Opera Ghost, the monster- the man.


End file.
